


Nectar

by winwinism



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Crack Treated Seriously, M/M, Porn With Plot, Unsanitary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:22:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29672769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winwinism/pseuds/winwinism
Summary: Atsumu buys a jar of Sakusa’s gamer omega bath water.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 26
Kudos: 299





	Nectar

**Author's Note:**

> Fic birthed from [this tweet](https://twitter.com/winwinism/status/1361701128744804352).

“Haha holy shit dude, did you see this?”

“What the--no way, that’s gotta be a joke.” 

“Right? I thought it was just a meme that was going around, but it’s real, the guy’s actually selling this stuff.”

“Oh my god. Who would actually _buy_ that?”

“I know! But the shop says it’s almost out of stock--unless that’s a joke, too? I can’t tell what’s real anymore, I’m done.”

“The hell’s going on?” Atsumu assumes a serious expression as he approaches the gaggle of excited second and third years, Rintarou sitting cross-legged in the center. “No phones during practice, _Rintarou_.” 

“Dude, practice is over,” Rintarou says, smirking. “It’s like you get off on exercising your captainly authority or something.”

“Oh. Right.” 

“Isn’t that an alpha thing?” one of the beta second years wonders. Atsumu shoots him a glare before he can suppress the urge, and the poor guy actually flinches. 

“Oh, there he is. Osamu!” Rintarou cranes his neck, peering past Atsumu, and waves Inarizaki’s vice captain over with a flap of his hand. “You gotta come look at this! This is the guy Atsumu likes, right?” 

Atsumu goes rigid. “Huh?”

Osamu thumps Atsumu on the back as he walks past, joining Rintarou and the others. He bends over, hands propped on his knees, and squints into the screen. “What am I looking at?” 

“Sakusa’s merch page--he’s a big Genshin Impact streamer and, uh, internet personality? He’s selling something called _gamer omega bath water_ , which is, I assume, exactly what it sounds like.” 

At this, Atsumu’s blood runs cold. He’s heard the expression before, but he never knew it was so literal. “I--what?”

As if scenting the direction of his thoughts, Osamu glances up at him and gives a quick, sharp nod. “Yeah, that’s the guy he likes.”

“ _No_ \--”

Rintarou’s laughing before he can finish. “Oh my god, this is too good. He’s pretty, though, I’ll give you that.” 

“So, what, he’s just taking baths and selling jars of the wastewater? That’s so gross,” Osamu says. Atsumu’s throat actually catches--he can’t believe his brother, his own _flesh and blood_ , is describing something related to Sakusa as _gross_. Even if he’s not quite sure what it is yet--and _gamer omega bath_ \--what the fuck? God, he needs to get his hands on his phone. 

“Yeah, and people are actually buying it, _apparently_. Though I can’t say I’m surprised. Imagine the pheromones--stuff probably has traces of his slick in it.” 

Atsumu’s brain can’t keep up. He’s still stuck on the _taking baths_ part, and here Rintarou goes bringing up _slick_. “Can you not,” he starts, lamely, but neither Rintarou nor Osamu nor anyone else pays him any mind. 

Osamu’s expression shifts as he considers it. “Okay, I can kind of see that. Still gross, though.” 

“Hah! What about you, Atsumu?” Rintarou elbows Hitoshi, who’s seated next to him. “He probably thinks it’s super hot, look at him standing there blushing.” 

“Hey!” Atsumu snaps, balling his fists. He manages to unstick his shoes from the gym floor and marches over, scattering some of the more timid second years in the process. “Samu’s full of shit, I barely know who you’re talking about--”

Rintarou’s eyes turn flat and dead as he stares up at him. “Sakusa Kiyoomi? Big, tall omega guy with curly hair and two prominent forehead moles? Mains Xiao? Likes cat ears? You _barely_ know him?” 

“Nope,” Atsumu says, snapping his mouth shut and looking down his nose at his teammate like he _totally isn’t_ dying with curiosity at whatever’s pulled up on Rintarou’s phone. 

“He has notifications on for his Twitter,” Osamu decides to mention, the absolute fucker. “I know because he got one at lunch the other day, and I caught the username on his lockscreen.” 

“Thank you, but I do not have notifications on for his Twitter, Samu; you must’ve misread. News to me that you can read at all, honestly.”

“Is it that big a deal? I mean, if he’s popular, a lot of people probably like him,” Hitoshi reasons. 

“Because Atsumu doesn’t just _like him_ , he’s a _simp_ ,” Rintarou says with a shit-eating smirk. “I never knew you liked big omegas, Atsumu, that’s surprisingly good taste coming from you.” 

Atsumu rolls his eyes. “So I watch his streams sometimes, doesn’t mean I have a fetish for _big omegas_.” 

“It’s not a fetish, it’s a perfectly natural preference.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Atsumu should buy one,” Rintarou decides. The group falls silent as it sucks in a collective breath, Atsumu embarrassingly among them. The idea rockets through Atsumu’s unsuspecting head like a bullet train and leaves him reeling. Frankly, nothing sounds more appealing. But he can’t say that, not in front of the _team_ , when he has a _captaincy_ to defend. 

He forces out a laugh. “No way, what? First of all,” he says, as jolly as a mall Santa, “I don’t have any money.” 

_Fuck_. That wasn’t what he’d meant to say. Now they’re gonna think he’d actually want one, say, in a world where Atsumu had the necessary disposable income. 

“I mean,” Atsumu rushes to add, “it’s not like, if I had some, I’d use it to buy something so disgus--”

“I’ll loan it to you,” Rintarou says, not missing a beat. “Actually, no. I’ll buy you lunch for a week. That should cover it.” 

_A week? How much do these jars cost?_ Atsumu squirms as he searches for the right words to regain his dignity, if such words exist at all. “No thanks. If you’re in the mood to give out loans, I can think of some training equipment I’ve been meaning to get my hands on--”

“Two weeks,” Rintarou corrects. His mouth quirks as he says it, but his gaze is steady. Honest. “That’s more than enough to cover the price of one jar. Consider it a bet?” 

“A bet on what?”

“Whether you’ll chicken out. Are you _alpha enough_ , Atsumu?” 

Atsumu hates that smile. Hates the half-expectant looks the other third years are giving him, the way Osamu’s mouth twitches, betraying suppressed laughter. “Whatever,” he says. There should be a law against asking alphas _that_ in public--asking them that _period_. It ain’t playing fair. “If wasting your money gets you off, Rintarou, I’ll happily play along.” 

“Oh, I’m not the one who’ll be getting off.” 

Osamu fakes gagging noises. Atsumu thwacks him on the shoulder, not really putting his arm into it. They’ll fight later, away from potential rubberneckers and their stupid cameras.

Privately, though, Atsumu entertains a sliver of gratitude that he’s been given an excuse. A whole jar of Sakusa Kiyoomi’s pheromones? He can’t fucking wait. 

It’s late by the time Atsumu sits his ass in front of the Miya family computer, and keeping the lights off save for the blue-white glow of the monitor only makes what he’s about to do seem more illicit. He’s got the authenticator app for Line Pay open on his phone and is ready to type that shit in as soon as he checks out, but _holy shit_ is he nervous. _Is_ he alpha enough? This is so fucking embarrassing. 

The bright off-white of Sakusa’s merch page mocks him with its familiarity; he’s seen these T-shirts, that hoodie, that cat ear headband. There’s a cutout of Sakusa’s pretty glower, a peace sign thrown up against his cheek, that hangs out at the bottom of the monitor as he scrolls. Though Atsumu has seen the photo a million times, Sakusa’s still so gorgeous it makes him sigh. 

At the top, a new item awaits Atsumu’s unsteady mouseover, his anxious double-click. _Gamer omega bath water_ , reads the all-lowercase label; above it, a photo of a squat, round jar, simply decorated with an eggshell label and a pink ribbon. 

The product description is terse and to the point, as is Sakusa’s style: _450 mL of gamer omega bath water, fresh + sealed_. Very professional. Atsumu wonders if Sakusa packaged it himself, or if he has an assistant. With his monthly salary--as estimated across various gaming columns and forums--it’s not like he wouldn’t be able to afford it. 

Atsumu hits add to cart. _What the fuck_. He navigates through the address and payment method pages, logging into Line and emptying his pathetic balance with a single prayer that Rintarou wasn’t shitting him, and that he’d be getting his money’s worth in calories the next two weeks. 

After, a thank you page greets him with a new picture of Sakusa, one he hasn’t seen before. In it, the streamer wears a banana yellow crop top that shows off his abs and soft tummy, and he’s got his hands cupped behind his head like the ears of a cat. Atsumu groans softly. 

_Estimated delivery time: 1 week_.

Atsumu _prints_ the confirmation email, like some kind of fucking nerd, and whips it out before lunch. Rintarou loses his head laughing. 

“Shut the fuck up, _you_ wanted me to do this!”

“Like you don’t?” Rintarou chuckles. “I’m doing you a favor, Atsumu.”

“Keep telling yourself that. So, you paying today or what?”

“No, Atsumu,” Rintarou says reassuringly, patting his shoulder. “You have to actually _get_ the thing first. I don’t want you cancelling any orders on me.” 

“What? _That’s_ how little faith you have in me?”

“Smart,” Osamu remarks, ignoring Atsumu’s venomous stare. “If it ain’t volleyball, you don’t wanna give this guy an inch.” 

“Man, fuck both of you!” 

The package arrives on a Sunday. Atsumu twiddles his thumbs all morning until he hears the delivery truck outside, at which point he races out front to grab the package before any of the other Miyas can take notice and appropriate it from under his nose. It’s a small cardboard box like any other, except cuter. Atsumu cloisters himself in his room and prays that Osamu won’t show up in time to tease him about it. 

The jar fits perfectly in the palm of his hand. The surface is cool, and Atsumu swears he can see a faint fingerprint on the metal lid. He ghosts the pad of his finger over it, wondering if the mark was left by Sakusa, or by his theoretical assistant. The possibility of either thrills him: now, even more than when Sakusa liked one of Atsumu’s Twitter replies two months and three days ago, he’s closer to Sakusa than he’s ever been. 

At that very moment, Atsumu’s phone buzzes with a message from Rintarou. 

> **Suna Rintarou:** Don’t you dare open it, we’re doing an official unboxing tomorrow before lunch
> 
> **Miya Atsumu:** Fuck you  
>  It’s already out of the box, I’m going ahead
> 
> **Suna Rintarou:** Say goodbye to lunch then
> 
> **Miya Atsumu:** …  
>  Feeling bullied
> 
> **Suna Rintarou:** Good.

Atsumu feels like a drug smuggler as he stuffs the re-taped cardboard box into his locker. It sticks to his mind all morning, embarrassing him, like his classmates would look at him and know what he’s up to. The damage to his reputation would be brutal. Probably. Not that he cares. 

They do it outside, in a quiet, less-frequently transversed corner of the Inarizaki campus. Atsumu produces the evidence from his bag and scowls. Rintarou and Hitoshi are there, and Osamu, because he’s a nosy fucker who’s attached to Rintarou by the hip these days, for reasons Atsumu doesn’t want to examine too closely. “Here it is, you creepy fuck.”

“Wow. Care to open it for us?”

Atsumu struggles to peel off the tape with his beautiful, filed-down setter fingernails. He sets it on the pavement and squats as he opens it to reveal the silver metal lid, nestled in layer of bubble wrap. Rintarou plucks it out before he can protest. 

“Gamer omega bath water. By Sakusa,” Rintarou reads off, lips twitching. “Where’s the ribbon? All the photos I saw online had one.”

“Uh, I threw it away when I opened it,” Atsumu lies. It’s in his bedroom drawer. Rintarou sucks his teeth.

“Well, I guess this is good enough.” He’s got his hand on the lid. He’s starting to open it. Atsumu throws out a hand before he registers what he’s doing. 

“Wait--”

Rintarou cracks open the jar, nose wrinkling in distaste. The movement coincides with the slightest breeze, and the smell hits Atsumu in an instant. He immediately forgets his (bizarre, misplaced) panic that Rintarou might spill it, brow furrowing and cheeks growing warm as he scents the air. Hitoshi must’ve smelled it too, looking around for the pretty omega that must’ve walked by--but this isn’t any of their classmates, this is. _Holy shit_. 

“I don’t smell anything,” says Rintarou, the beta that he is, “but something tells me you guys do.” 

“Wait,” says Hitoshi, “it’s _actually_ the guy’s bath water? Jesus.”

“Yeah, right? I thought it’d just be plain tap.” 

Osamu’s nostrils flare. “Eh,” he says. 

“ _Eh?_ ” Atsumu raises both eyebrows, disbelieving. “That’s what you think?”

Rintarou holds the jar up so Osamu can sniff it at a closer range. Before he can suppress it, Atsumu finds himself once again seized by the urge to snatch the jar away and protect it from his teammates’ prying hands and noses. 

“Okay, you saw the damn thing, give it back!” 

Rintarou’s eyes snap to his. “Why? I thought you weren’t interested in it, this being _my fault_ and all.”

“I bought it,” Atsumu sputters. Unfortunately--his bank account is still recovering from the blow. 

“Yeah, because I promised you I’d pay you back by buying you lunch.” Rintarou’s lips curl. “Actually, you mind if I keep it?”

“Yes,” Atsumu says hoarsely. He holds out an expectant palm. “Put the lid back on, too.” _Before all the pheromones evaporate out, or whatever_. 

“Really?” says Osamu. “It ain’t all that.”

“Your boyfriend ain’t all that.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” Osamu replies, one eyebrow arching, “but okay, rude. And strangely uncalled-for. Do you think Sakusa is _your_ boyfriend? Are you that delusional, Sumu? Do we need to stage an intervention?”

“Shut up! Don’t wanna hear you dissing him, that’s all.”

“Or his bath water,” Rintarou adds. Hitoshi snorts. Atsumu doesn’t think it’s very funny.

Atsumu is currently making intense eye contact with the jar on his desk. He’s supposed to be doing his homework, like he’ll ever have to use _quadratic equations_ once in his fucking life--he’s playing volleyball and that’s it, it’s already been decided. Osamu is out “studying” at Rintarou’s, though Atsumu suspects that isn’t all those two will be doing. Which is fine, and not really something Atsumu wants to be thinking about. 

Actually, he’s finding it kind of hard to think about anything other than the jar. And, by extension, Sakusa. 

Sakusa did an Instagram live during lunch today, allegedly with the purpose of chatting with fans; but, as usual, he ended up silently reading through the rapid-fire scroll of comments--Atsumu’s among them--for the majority of the stream, munching on a salad and taking sips from the bright pink bubble tea he’d gotten delivered. Atsumu thought his lips looked good wrapped around the straw, but Atsumu thinks Sakusa looks good doing most things. 

Atsumu knows Sakusa gets a lot of hate for being unexpressive and shit at interaction, and that his forum and comments section-dwelling antis claim his success is undeserved, owing itself primarily to his stunning good looks and omega status. But he’s also legitimately good at what he does, with a unique style of gameplay; and occasionally he’ll fire off a one-liner or make some incisive remark that makes you wonder what’s going on behind those dark eyes the other 99% of the time, leaving you curious enough to stick around for the next one. And what’s wrong with being popular for being hot, anyway? 

In any case, Atsumu went through the rest of his day with Sakusa on the brain. And now he’s tired. He doesn’t want to do his math homework. And he’s horny. And he’s not going to jerk off to Sakusa’s used bath water, but he’s definitely thinking about it, and he definitely wants to smell those pheromones again because, well, he’s just curious, alright? 

How horny do you have to be to jerk off to someone’s used bath water?

Atsumu unscrews the jar with one sweaty, calloused palm. The surface of the water wobbles as he sits it on his desk. The scent doesn’t hit the air immediately, most of the aromatic particles no doubt having diffused the first time it was opened; but when Atsumu sets his shoulders and breathes in, there’s no mistaking it: omega, cloyingly sweet yet tart, like banana lemon pie. 

He’s never had banana lemon pie. He’s not sure that’s even a thing. But the images that omega pheromones conjure up tend to be instinctual and irrational, and there’s nothing rational about the way Atsumu’s feeling now. He exhales unsteadily, fingers twitching where they rest on his thighs. He can fill his dick starting to fill out--because he’s thinking about Sakusa, not because he’s sniffing his used bath water or something gross like that. He’s straight-up fantasizing now, remembering how Sakusa looked during his livestream, how his little pink, whore lips wrapped around the boba-sized straw, his pale cheeks hollowing out as he sucked. Atsumu’s alpha dick is a lot bigger than that, obviously. He wonders, for the hundred-thousandth time, how Sakusa would look with cock stuffed in his mouth. How he’d look up through his thick lashes, purring because he likes the taste, getting wet because satisfying his alpha turns him on so much. 

Atsumu’s jaw works as he stares at the jar. _Fuck you, Rintarou_ , he thinks; then, seriously, he wonders if an omega’s used bath water would have traces of slick. 

He breathes in again, eyes rolling up to stare at the ceiling. Osamu won’t be back for a while, and it’s unlikely he’ll be disturbed by his parents. He shoves his pants down below his ass and gets out his dick. 

Sakusa would like sucking cock, Atsumu decides, because Sakusa is a streamer, which is one step above camming on the porn sites Atsumu visits when watching Sakusa’s streams or refreshing his social media feeds isn’t enough, though that tends to happen--disturbingly, he realizes--less and less often as of late. Atsumu knows what works for him, alright? He knows what he likes. And maybe he does like big omegas; maybe all of the videos he has bookmarked for late nights have something to do with tall, musclebound omegas dominating alpha boys and sitting on their knots until they tear up. He likes ones where the alpha gets tied up, arms forced behind his back and thighs locked in place so he can do nothing but receive the omega’s warm, wet hole. Atsumu doesn’t know if he’d be into that in real life, but--god, he’d probably pass out. 

His dick is starting to get wet. He spits on his hand and starts to work it over his cock, smearing the precum from the tip. His knot’s feeling sensitive, almost itchy. He thinks about the tip of his dick curving into Sakusa’s cheek; Sakusa flushing, embarrassed by his own whorish behavior; Atsumu’s generously-sized alpha cock making Sakusa’s stomach bulge out as Atsumu fucks him so deep he screams. Sakusa screaming Atsumu’s name. _Holy shit_. 

The scent is starting to get to his head. It’s barely there, to be honest, but even a modest hit of omega pheromones can make an alpha lose it, if they’re in the right (or wrong) state of mind. It’s why they keep omegas in separate classes all through high school, and used to keep them in separate schools; alphas at that age are too young to be trusted around omegas, too knot-headed and inexperienced with keeping their instincts in check. Atsumu’s slept with beta girls, but he’s never been with an omega because of all the sex ed lecturing--and because he’s never met an omega who was available and down, but that’s nobody’s business but his own. He bites his lip, furious with the desire, the _need_ to know what it’s like. Even if it’d be Atsumu’s first time, he’d be good for them, the hypothetical omega of his dreams--he _knows_ it. He’d be good for Sakusa. _Please_ , Atsumu prays to whatever god might be playing voyeur. _Please let me fuck him_. _I’m definitely his hottest fan_. 

Atsumu isn’t doing this. He’s _not_. He’s imagining it; he must be experiencing some variation on phantom limb syndrome. Atsumu doesn’t lift his free hand from where it was clasping his knee, doesn’t tremble in anticipation, and he _doesn’t_ shove two clumsy fingers into the jar, splashing the lukewarm liquid over the desk. A fresh curl of Sakusa’s scent springs free and hits Atsumu harder than such a modest amount of pheromones probably should. He groans through his teeth and brings his wet fingers to his mouth. 

He thinks of Sakusa saying _good boy_ as he takes the streamer’s proferred fingers into his mouth, lapping up their sweet gloss of slick. With this image in his mind, Atsumu sucks on his own fingers, and barely tastes anything. It’s water, maybe slightly sour. His dick throbs, and he moans, eyelids fluttering. He’d suck Sakusa’s pathetic little omega cock like this, no question; he’d be so fucking good for him. The best. 

It’s his best orgasm in fucking months, since around the time he first became Sakusa’s fan, maybe since that day Sakusa posted a set of shirtless, freshly-showered bathroom selfies, nipples blurred out in protest of, uh, Instagram’s gender-discriminatory censorship policies. Duh. 

It takes Osamu, who smells suspiciously freshly-showered, about five seconds after stepping over the threshold of their bedroom to scent the air and figure out what went on less than an hour ago within these four walls. Times like these, Atsumu almost wishes they were both born betas. 

“Wow, I see you’ve been studying hard,” Osamu says. 

“I could say the same thing about you,” says Atsumu, who can’t smell a single incriminating thing on his brother except an unfamiliar brand of soap.

Osamu’s eyes go to Atsumu’s desk. Only then does Atsumu realize he’d put the jar back in a different corner of the desk, that the water level therein is now slightly lower, and that there might be a few splashes of water on the desk he’d forgotten to wipe up. “Uh,” Osamu says, for once struck dumb by his brother’s antics. “That’s fucking gross.”

“I didn’t--” Osamu’s face: _Really?_ “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but you better not fucking tell anyone. Not your boyfriend, either.”

“Shaddup, he’s not my boyfriend.”

“Oh, _he_ isn’t? Well, if _he_ happens to break your heart, let me know.”

Osamu snorts, swinging his bag onto the floor. “No, we still need him for Spring High. You, too. Any fistfights will have to take place after graduation.” 

“I was thinking more along the lines of a baseball bat.” 

“You, thinking? That’s a new one.” Osamu rubs the back of his neck, and adds, “He’s not breaking my heart, by the way. It’s just not that serious.” 

“Okay, Samu. I’ll take your word for it.” 

A day later, verified Twitter user @sakusa_ posts a particularly unusual tweet.

> **sakusa** _@sakusa__ 48s  
>  feel like chatting w someone.. reply 2 this tweet and i might dm

Atsumu’s heart surges up into his throat. He opens the Twitter app at warp speed and types his fastest reply in sixth months of being Sakusa Kiyoomi’s number one reply-guy. Well, maybe not number one--some of these people really have no lives--but he’s up there. 

> **foxface** _@miyaats95_ just now  
>  Hiiii I love you 🥺

Atsumu sets his phone to Do Not Disturb and places it face-down on his desk, because he is nothing if not careful to manage his health--Kita-san would be proud--and he is acutely aware that staying on Twitter and refreshing for a message that wouldn’t come would be extremely bad for his mental and physical condition. Like, stress-induced aneurysm bad. He doesn’t want Osamu to have to stage an intervention. That would be just depressing. 

He manages to go to sleep that night without checking Twitter again, and only when he wakes up at 5 AM for morning practice does he open his notifications. 

At the bottom of the list, there’s a message. Not a reply. A message. 

> **sakusa** Yesterday, 9:48 PM  
>  hey cutie

Atsumu doesn’t throw his phone. It’s just that, through some freak accident, gravity pulls it sideways, nearly pegging Osamu in the head. “Yo, what the fuck!” 

“Sorry, Samu--mind handing me that?” 

Osamu kicks the phone, sending it skittering across the floorboards. Atsumu pouts as he snatches it up, hands already shaking. He opens the Twitter app. There’s a single notification in the messages tab. He hardly ever gets messages, aside from spam; Atsumu primarily uses @miyaats95 to follow a few pro volleyball accounts and assorted internet personalities, like Sakusa, and most of his tweets are, naturally, replies to Sakusa’s. Instagram is where he has all of his followers and friends. He opens the tab. When he zeroes in on the blue checkmark at the top of his inbox, Atsumu’s heart nearly stops. “Woah, what’s you got so red?”

“Nothing!” Atsumu sits and sets his phone down, exhaling with a shudder. He closes his eyes. He’s hallucinating. He’s lost it. Well, it was bound to happen eventually. He looks at his phone again. 

It’s really Sakusa. It’s him, in Atsumu’s inbox, having messaged him--he double-checks the timestamp--nine minutes after Atsumu replied to his tweet. There were thousands of responses before Atsumu’s, and countless more after; what were the odds? And the actual message itself-- _what the fuck_. Atsumu reads the characters over and over, sure he’s missing something. He’s gotten all manner of compliments related to his looks, been called all sorts of names, but he’s hardly ever been called _cute_. It’s a new sensation, and it’s _doing_ things to him, before he even begins to consider that this is _Sakusa_ \--

“Dude, you coming?”

Atsumu turns off his phone. He’s starting to spiral. He can’t do this, not now, not when he has practice. “Yeah, just a sec, Samu.” His heart pounds, but he draws on one of his emergency reserves of willpower and shoves his phone in his bag, determined to ignore it until he has the free time necessary for a mental breakdown. 

Atsumu doesn’t look at his phone all day. By afternoon, he’s breezing through the rest of his classes and has almost forgotten about the incident entirely. Okay, not really. Actually, not at all. It’s a bit of a struggle. But he grits his teeth and gets through it. 

Only after afternoon practice, and an hour of individual practice following that, plus an hour of (distracted, dubiously useful) studying does Atsumu allow himself to behold Sakusa’s message again. 

Just looking at it gets his heartbeat going. He pulls up the keyboard to type a response. 

> **foxface:** Hi Oh my god :) 

After sending, Atsumu rereads his own message a few times, and swiftly decides it’s about the stupidest thing anyone’s ever said, ever. He groans and slaps his phone down on the bed, dramatically throwing the back of his hand over his forehead as he stares into the ceiling. From below him, Osamu asks _what now_. Atsumu tells him to mind his business. 

Atsumu’s phone buzzes. He snatches it up, wide-eyed and suddenly wide awake. 

> **sakusa:** hi honey  
>  thought you were leaving me on read :/

Atsumu gapes. He can’t believe this is happening to him. 

> **foxface** : No! Im sorry!! I didnt see it until morning and i was busy all day  
>  Thank u for messaging me! I’m such a huge fan 
> 
> **sakusa:** i know >_o

What the fuck does that mean? But wait. Atsumu’s stupid. He doesn’t need to restate the obvious. Or does he? Now’s his chance to, like, shoot his shot--

> **foxface:** Yes ofc! Haha. I love you!! 

Atsumu cringes into his elbow until his phone buzzes again. 

> **sakusa:** ur cute foxface  
>  is that u in ur dp?

_Cute_. Not cute. Anything but cute. _Sakusa, please don’t call me cute, my heart can’t take it_. If the first message gave him a blush, the second makes Atsumu red as a tomato. Self-awareness hits him with a jolt: six months ago, he set his profile picture to a post-workout bathroom selfie, one where he’s holding the hem of his sleeveless shirt between his teeth and tensing his abs, skin gleaming with sweat. This being a hypothetically anonymous account, he cropped his face out so only his torso was visible. Which is what the photos’s really about, anyway. If he was going to reply-guy and beg for the attention of various internet personalities (and by that he means one internet personality, which is Sakusa), he thought he may as well show off some of his other assets besides his willingness to simp. 

But he’d gotten used to looking at it whenever he opened Twitter, and forgotten how a partially-nude profile photo might come across. Now he’s embarrassed. _Now_ he is, after tweeting some of the most embarrassing things imaginable in the replies to Sakusa’s tweets. _Oh shit_. What if Sakusa’s seen some of those? But wasn’t that the point, for his replies to be seen? None of this is making any sense, and Atsumu’s brain is about to shut down. 

> **foxface:** Yes haha

_That’s the second time you’ve said_ haha. _Idiot_. 

> **sakusa:** ok hottie

Atsumu doesn’t stand a chance. It’s an instant blue screen of death, a full-on server meltdown. His fingers move without him meaning for them to. 

> **foxface:** Whaaaa really? 
> 
> **sakusa:** yes u little fox
> 
> **foxface:** Oh
> 
> **sakusa:** why r u surprised? 
> 
> **foxface:** Idk   
>  Ur like my idol I guess lol so it’s a lot

He changes _haha_ to _lol_ at the last second.

> **sakusa:** a lot how?

Atsumu can’t look at his phone. He can’t make _eye contact_ with that message, with Sakusa’s question; he feels like he’s being mocked, yet he can’t resist responding honestly. 

> **foxface:** Im just really happy.. 
> 
> **sakusa:** aw  
>  im glad ur happy  
>  u make me happy too

_Okay_ , Atsumu thinks numbly. What is this guy getting out of this? Does he enjoy torturing people? Atsumu’s heart _is_ going to burst, and it’ll be all Sakusa’s fault. Maybe his parents will sue for damages. 

Atsumu replies nonetheless, determined to extract as much out of this interaction as possible, even if his usual conversational abilities have mysteriously fled.

> **foxface:** Rlly?
> 
> **sakusa:** yes  
>  i love reading ur replies

Atsumu’s got a straight-up cold sweat going at this point.

> **foxface:** Youve read them??
> 
> **sakusa:** u show up in my notifs with a body like that  
>  and expect to be ignored?

_But_ \--Atsumu wants to protest-- _you get so many replies constantly, thousands of them_. On the court, Atsumu’s special status can’t be denied; but on Twitter, he’s insignificant, one ant in a writhing hoard. It’s as oppressive as it is strangely freeing. And hot. For Sakusa, Atsumu doesn’t mind being insignificant.

> **foxface:** I mean I didnt think youd see them  
>  But I hoped??

_And you only liked one of my replies once_ , he doesn’t add. He doesn’t want to come across as, like, bitter about Sakusa withholding his likes. Since this is just a big joke, and all.

> **sakusa:** oh honey  
>  u know i cant play favorites too much right?   
>  i read more comments n such than i let on  
>  and i always read yours <3
> 
> **foxface:** Fuck
> 
> **sakusa:** u ok?

Atsumu hadn’t meant to send that. He shivers; the heart emoticon alone makes his spine tingle. He’s starting to get hard. He’s definitely not okay. 

> **foxface:** Yeah sorry :’D 

“Dude,” Osamu says, wrenching Atsumu’s head from the digital plane to the physical, “don’t even think about it.”

What?” Atsumu asks, but he registers his brother’s meaning as soon as he says the word. Rolling his eyes, he climbs down the bunk bed, ladder creaking under his weight, and pads over to the bathroom. After locking himself inside, Atsumu sees there are three new messages from Sakusa. 

> **sakusa:** don’t be  
>  u dont have to answer this but  
>  is miya ur name?

Atsumu blinks. For a second, his chest seizes with panic that Sakusa has somehow seen through him, _doxxed_ him somehow--until he remembers. His username. He never changed it after coming back to the old, unused account he’d made in 2013, only changing his display name to _foxface_ , of all things. _God_ , how the fuck did he forget to change it? So much for remaining anonymous. 

> **foxface:** Yeahh lol
> 
> **sakusa:** can i call u miya-chan? :3

_What_.

Wait a second. Atsumu doesn’t have the mental load for this. His brain’s dropping dates he memorized for the upcoming history midterm left and right just to keep up. He thinks of Sakusa whispering _Miya-chan_ into his ear, and Atsumu’s dick actually twitches. A small, pathetic sound burbles out of his lips. 

> **foxface:** Sure ig haha  
>  Imean I am 2 years younger than u
> 
> **sakusa:** i guessed :>  
>  r u still in high school?
> 
> **foxface:** Yeah i’m graduating soon
> 
> **sakusa:** know what ur doing afterwards?  
> 
> 
> **foxface:** Yeah playing pro volleyball  
>  Not sure what team yet tho
> 
> **sakusa:** oh?  
>  oh u must be really good then  
>  no wonder ur in such good shape… my god

Atsumu’s burning. He _knows_ he’s in good shape, that he has a hot body, et cetera, this isn’t news; it’s just _Sakusa_. He never once suspected that Sakusa would be like this, that he’d be so friendly and _flirty_ , god damn; and it’s only knowing he wouldn’t be able to maintain a conversation whilst jerking off that keeps him from getting out his dick right the fuck now. He slumps against the bathroom door and shudders with frustration, warring with himself over his next reply. 

> **foxface:** Lol your not so bad urself
> 
> **sakusa:** i know  
>  or i know that u think so  
>  ive been reading ur tweets, remember?
> 
> **foxface:** Yeah..  
>  Im a lil embarrassed honestly haha
> 
> **sakusa:** do u blush?
> 
> **foxface:** Yea
> 
> **sakusa:** r u blushing right now?
> 
> **foxface:**...Probably
> 
> **sakusa:** ur so fucking cute u know that

Gnawing his lip, Atsumu barrels forward, each response from Sakusa emboldening him further. Sakusa better be careful or he’ll start to get greedy. 

> **foxface:** Wanna see?
> 
> **sakusa:** aw i do but u shouldnt :/  
>  stranger danger
> 
> **foxface:** Ur not a strager
> 
> **sakusa:** true  
>  i bet miya-chan has such a pretty face
> 
> **foxface:** So Ive been told

Not _pretty_ , maybe, but. Close enough. Atsumu vibrates at the thought of Sakusa calling him pretty. And man, this _prank_ is starting to go pretty far. 

> **sakusa:** got everyone drooling over u at school   
>  but u only want me huh?

Atsumu’s heart throbs, unprepared for the feeling of being vulnerable before this guy--this _stranger_ \--he’s been unironically, embarrassingly _crushing on_ for six months. If he’s actually read Atsumu’s replies, Sakusa knows absolutely everything about the way Atsumu feels.

> **foxface:** Yeah..
> 
> **sakusa:** dont be shy now  
>  or was asking me to sit on ur face a joke :3c

_Wait, fuck_. That was two months ago. Sakusa remembers? Atsumu’s pretty sure he deleted that one in a rare episode of post-nut clarity. He’s usually more respectful, but, well. Certain behaviors get normalized in certain circles. 

> **foxface:** I mean  
>  No
> 
> **sakusa:** good  
>  bc i would

Atsumu can’t take it anymore. He molds his palm over his erection, expelling a groan from deep in his throat. 

> **foxface:** Woww really  
>  Do u always joke with ur fans like this haha
> 
> **sakusa:** never  
>  and i never joke  
>  have u even done that before miya-chan
> 
> **foxface:** No
> 
> **sakusa:** thats ok  
>  id teach u how to do it well… show u what i like  
>  u already get me so wet it wouldnt take much
> 
> **foxface:** Lying
> 
> **sakusa:** im not i swear :p  
>  i wanna lick the sweat off ur abs  
>  hold u down n make u wait for it  
>  ud like that wouldnt u?
> 
> **foxface:** Fuck yeah
> 
> **sakusa:** mmhmm   
>  alpha rite?
> 
> **foxface:** Yeah
> 
> **sakusa:** yes ofc u are  
>  im pan but alphas…mmmph  
>  i like being on top but they dont always let u do that  
>  they need to feel in control  
>  but ud let me wouldnt u? 
> 
> **foxface:** Anything
> 
> **sakusa:** getting a little slow with the responses there :p  
>  busy w sumthing?

Atsumu hasn’t hated the fact that he doesn’t have three hands more than he does in this moment. He types with one sweat-slippery thumb, working his free hand over his cock as he muffles soft moans of pleasure with a harsh bite to his lip. He wonders if Sakusa is getting off on this, in some way or another, or if he just finds it funny. Mostly he wonders how Sakusa’s tight hole would feel around his knot. 

> **foxface:** Yeah sorry
> 
> **sakusa:** oh?  
>  is miya-chan being naughty :3c
> 
> **foxface:** Kinda
> 
> **sakusa:** couldnt wait to get ur hands on ur big alpha cock  
>  nnnn thats so  
>  u do this watching my streams?  
>  no i know u do  
>  tbh i was abt to get off when i saw u messaged me...fucking finally  
>  been wet since we started talking n fuck  
>  im all messy for u  
>  if u were here ud clean me up yeah? w ur tongue  
>  bite me a little n call me a slut too <3  
>  lick me out until i couldnt feel my legs  
>  then stuff me w ur knot until i passed out  
>  hope ur taking notes
> 
> **foxface:** Fuck
> 
> **sakusa:** good boy

Atsumu gets cum on the sink. And his pants. And the carpet. At least his toothbrush is spared. 

> **foxface:** I gotta clean up
> 
> **sakusa:** me too sweetheart  
>  chat again sumtime?
> 
> **foxface:** Yeah of course
> 
> **sakusa:** okay miya-chan :>  
>  good night 

The next few weeks are a blur of happiness and extreme sexual frustration. Atsumu hasn’t jacked off so much in his life. He’s mildly turned on more often than not, and spends every waking hour (at least once an hour, without fail) thinking of Sakusa. It’s sick, he’s sick, but it’s not even his fault--Sakusa’s doing this to him. Unbelievably, after that first night, they proceed to exchange messages every day, even if it’s just a quick _hello_ or _good night_ or _how was your day_ , _good_ , _thanks_ , _I’m glad_. 

Atsumu tells Sakusa about volleyball, and when he mentions that he’s the best high school setter in Japan (aside from Kageyama Tobio, that jerkface) _and_ the top server in every tournament he enters, it’s with completely innocent intentions. That Sakusa thinks it’s hot, that he’s so good at volleyball, is only because Sakusa is, apparently, depraved and a slut for everything Atsumu does. It’s not like Atsumu thinks it’s objectively his sexiest quality, or something like that. 

Atsumu tells Sakusa his grades are starting to drop. Sakusa roleplays being his teacher and spanking Atsumu over his desk until he promises to study harder. Coach Kurosu pulls him aside for a lecture about balancing sports and academics, and insists that they’re of equal importance (pure comedy) even if Atsumu doesn’t plan on attending college. Atsumu involuntarily imagines a horrifying scene in which his coach spanks him the way Sakusa had described. Coach asks why he looks like he’s about to throw up. Atsumu coughs and says, _nothing_. 

Osamu’s looks of faint disapproval are becoming more frequent. _Well, sucks to be him_. Osamu doesn’t even have the balls to tell Rintarou about his sad, gay feelings, and Atsumu has a millionaire internet celebrity slipping into his direct messages every night without him needing to ask. For Atsumu, it’s a well and truly wonderful life. 

Sakusa, Atsumu learns, is not only more boldly flirtatious than Atsumu would’ve imagined for a second, but extremely eloquent when it comes to describing what he wants from Atsumu sexually. He types unflappable streams of filth into Atsumu’s inbox whilst Atsumu, pathetically two-handed, cranks himself like each orgasm might be his last. They don’t exchange photos, or bring up the idea of video calling (though Atsumu imagines what that would be like with aching want), but Sakusa’s descriptions are vivid enough to suffice. 

> **sakusa:** i think ud look so pretty trussed up in red rope sweetheart  
>  id take my time tying u up  
>  never letting my fingers brush ur skin the way u want  
>  ur spine would arch beautifully chasing my touch  
>  but i wouldnt give it to u  
>  finger myself while u watch until im soaked  
>  ur eyes on me would get me so hot <3
> 
> **foxface:** Please
> 
> **sakusa:** i like boys who mind their manners  
>  id straddle u n take my time sitting on ur knot  
>  ud beg but id only go slower  
>  fuck

It’s only rarely that Sakusa is reduced to single-word messages. That’s more Atsumu’s brand.

> **foxface:** Yeah Id like that
> 
> **sakusa:** ofc   
>  wish i could see ur face  
>  would u cry for me?  
>  or would u bite ur lip and blush  
>  r u noisy miya-chan
> 
> **foxface:** Wanna find out
> 
> **sakusa:** yeah  
>  yeah i do  
>  would u let me?
> 
> **foxface:** Fuck yes
> 
> **sakusa:** baby ur so good  
>  i think i might let u too

Made stupid by his arousal, Atsumu blinks in confusion at this, and decides to give up on responding as he chases his release. It never takes long, not with Sakusa. 

After, he checks the handful of messages Sakusa had sent in the meantime and discovers he hadn’t mistaken Sakusa’s meaning--he wants to _find out_. Not over the phone, or via video call. He wants to meet up.

Atsumu double- and triple-checks the address in his Twitter inbox, and sips gingerly from the plain coffee he’d only bought so he’d have an excuse to sit down. He doesn’t like coffee much. The cafe is busy, it being another chilly winter day, perfect for hot cocoas and baked goods and other calorific items unsuited to the diet of a serious athlete like Atsumu. He’s got his eye on the croissants, though, and the longer that Sakusa keeps him waiting, the more tempting they become. 

Not only is he nursing a craving for French pastry, Atsumu finds there’s a sick pit of doubt starting to grow in his stomach, one insisting that he’s been punked, that Sakusa’s been playing him this whole time, and that this is only the final joke. Well, at least he got some potent masturbation material out of it. Atsumu scowls. Doesn’t Sakusa know how many omegas are _dying_ for a piece of Atsumu? Like, a ton. He’s sure of it. 

The bell over the cafe door rings as it swings open, inviting in a blast of frigid air. Atsumu doesn’t look up. He tucks his chin into the collar of his jacket, now outright pouting. Only after a moment does he register the footsteps approaching, then the presence of a neutral-smelling beta lurking in his periphery. 

Atsumu swivels in his chair. At once, his eyes all but bug out of his head. 

“K-Kodzuk--”

Cat-like golden eyes narrow from beneath the shadow of the guy’s hood, and he snaps one slender finger to the cloth mask covering his nose and mouth. “Shh,” hushes the world-famous streamer, YouTuber, CEO, et cetera. “Don’t make it obvious.” The lazy, droning voice is familiar and unmistakable. Kodzuken shuffles closer, hands fisted in his Bouncing Ball-branded hoodie, and goes to sit in the empty chair opposite Atsumu’s. “You’re foxface, right?”

Atsumu gapes dumbly for a few moments before gathering himself. Interacting with world-famous internet personalities? Normal! Interacting with them face-to-face, unexpectedly, and tack on the fact that Kodzuken is at least ten times more famous than Sakusa? Not so much! “Y-yeah, I am, but why’re you--”

“Sakusa asked me to come.” Kodzuken’s hunching his shoulders, and he makes eye contact with Atsumu like it’s the last think he wants to do. “He doesn’t like leaving his apartment.”

“Huh?”

Kodzuken’s nose twitches. “He didn’t tell you that? Whatever. It’s not my business. He just wants me to make sure you’re not some crazy stalker before you go back to his place and bang him.” 

“I’m not!” Atsumu sputters, only reviewing the statement after he says it: is he a stalker? He checks Sakusa’s social media feeds ten times a day. He has an entire media gallery dedicated to Sakusa on his phone. He reads rumors about him on forums, including the ones that speculate about his personal life and background, though he always feels guilty afterwards. Could be better, could be worse. 

“Oh, okay.” Kodzuken’s eyes sweep over Atsumu knowingly, as if peeling back the layers of his jacket and super hot fitted shirt to penetrate to the insane potential-stalker within. “Honestly, I recommended performing a psychological evaluation, but he says you’re normal.”

“Right?” Atsumu agrees. 

“But that’s just Twitter. All kinds of psychos pretend to be normal on Twitter.” Kodzuken props an elbow on the little cafe table and leans across it, brows furrowing. Atsumu gulps. “That said, I have enough experience by now that I can sort of tell. I get a gut feeling when someone’s...off, somehow. It’s saved my ass a couple times.” 

“Oh, huh,” Atsumu says, filing this away under _things he’ll need to know for his future career as an international volleyball superstar_. 

“But Kiyoomi doesn’t do cons or fanmeets or any of that, so he doesn’t know. So he asked me to stop by and _check out_ this hot new fan of his who’s gonna _do him_.” Kodzuken taps one index finger on the table, and says, “So you play volleyball?”

Atsumu blinks. “Yeah, I’m a setter.”

“Cool. I played setter in high school, too.” Atsumu knows this already, because Kodzuken is quite literally world-famous and there is a wealth of information about him available online, but he doesn’t bother pointing that out. “Not that I was any good at it. Kiyoomi says you’re going pro, like, for sure. What teams are you looking at?”

“Adlers, maybe?” Atsumu says, surprised that Saksua has revealed that much. Kodzuken huffs.

“Good luck. I heard they’re picking up Romero this year. If that doesn’t work out, the Black Jackals are an interesting bunch, too.”

“Gee, thanks,” Atsumu huffs. _The Black Jackals, really?_ “Did I pass yet?”

“Pass what?” Kodzuken blinks innocently, eyes wide as moons. “I’m just making conversation. Are you, by any chance, feeling impatient?” 

Atsumu’s fingers tighten around the edge of his chair. “Uh, a little? No offense.”

“None taken. Do you want my autograph?”

“Yeah, sure.” 

Kodzuken gives Atsumu an address. Getting here was a half day’s train ride already, and Sakusa’s apartment, unsurprisingly located in an upscale neighborhood, is another three miles from the cafe. Atsumu momentarily considers running, which would be both fast and environmentally-friendly, before considering that he’d rather not show up at Sakusa’s door his sweaty, disheveled post-run self. He spent _fifteen minutes_ styling his hair at home, and fuck Osamu for making fun of him. So he takes the bus. 

Atsumu’s heart starts to pound in earnest as soon as Sakusa buzzes him in. The elevator ride is swift, but long enough for a new batch of doubts to assert themselves: this is--will be--his first time with an omega, after all. And not just _any_ omega, but quite possibly the Platonic ideal of one--the über-omega--the omega whose cutthroat jawline and sweet scent must’ve been hand-crafted by the gods. It’s a bit much. 

Atsumu rings the doorbell with a decidedly firm press of his thumb and steps back, chest tight with anticipation. The door swings open. A jolt ripples up Atsumu’s spine at the sound and sudden movement, whip-fast. He immediately proceeds to start coughing into his fist. 

“Um,” a familiar voice says. Atsumu manages to stop coughing and snaps his head up to meet the very pair of gray eyes he’s been worshipping for the past six-and-then-some months. He coughs again. He’s being choked. With banana lemon pie. 

“Hi,” Atsumu croaks out, eyes watering. His lips wobble into a smile. Sakusa stares back, unblinking, and there isn’t so much as a single upward twitch to his mouth. But that’s okay, because now Atsumu’s looking at his mouth, and isn’t it just as pretty as it looks on a screen--prettier, even. 

Finally, Sakusa starts to withdraw back into the apartment, holding the door open in his wake. “Come in.”

“S-Sakusa?” Atsumu stumbles over the syllables, blushing; saying his name makes it real. 

The streamer pauses, half-turning on his heel and looking almost bashfully over his shoulder. Paralyzed, Atsumu counts the twin moles atop his right brow. “Yes?” 

Atsumu isn’t sure what he’d meant to say. “Nothing,” he says, smiling in a way that tries for reassuring, but probably comes across as desperate. Which he is. Atsumu’s face tends to betray him like that. 

Sakusa huffs. He retreats further into the apartment; helpless, Atsumu follows. 

Sakusa’s scent, glancingly familiar thanks to the traces of it Atsumu had smelled in the _gamer omega bath water_ , permeates the place wall-to-wall. Atsumu breathes shallowly through his mouth, and feels saliva collecting under his tongue. He’s been physically excited since he got off the bus, and now it’s almost embarrassing how he’s starting to harden in his jeans. Except that that’s what they’re here for, right? 

The apartment is sparsely furnished and sparkling clean down to the last mote of dust. There are a few paintings hung here and there, and a gold YouTube Play Button sits on the mantlepiece. Atsumu ghosts a hand over the granite countertop as they pass the kitchen; and Sakusa, somehow sensing the movement, whirls around to give him a sharp, furrowed-brow look. “What?”

“Don’t--” Sakusa purses his lips, and Atsumu traces the bob of his slender throat. “Nevermind.”

“Don’t want me to touch? Okay.” Atsumu puts his palms up, caught-criminal style. “Don’t have to.” Atsumu should’ve guessed a rich person would be like that. 

Sakusa opens a door to what Atsumu presumes is his bedroom, but he stops Atsumu before he can follow him in. “Wait here.”

“Alright.”

Sakusa emerges a minute later with a towel and a folded bathrobe, both fluffy and white and folded with a hotel room service-level of care. He holds them out expectantly. “The guest bathroom’s at the end of the hall. Please shower for ten minutes, then brush your teeth for two minutes--there’s an unopened toothbrush on the sink. Then we’ll talk.”

“Talk,” Atsumu echoes, and accepts the items in numb fingers. 

“Yes,” Sakusa says. “Talk first.”

“I--okay.” Atsumu starts towards the bathroom, feeling slightly cowed. 

“There’s also a wind-up timer on the sink,” Sakusa adds at his back. “Or you can use your phone. And don’t jerk off.” Atsumu freezes. The words prickle at the base of his spine. “I’ll know.”

_Okay_ , Atsumu thinks, tipping his head back into the hot spray. The water pressure’s fucking great. _So that was a little weird_. _But hot_. But Atsumu thinks everything Sakusa does is hot, so that isn’t saying much. Maybe this is some kind of weird, abstract roleplay? Sakusa, the tight-lipped, controlling omega, Atsumu the beautiful alpha boy drooling at his feet, in desperate need of direction. _Yeah, that works_. Works for Little Atsumu, too, who plumps up at the very thought. 

So preoccupied, the ten minutes are agonizing. Sakusa was right to warn Atsumu against jacking off, or he might’ve; it’d help him last longer, but Sakusa would probably be into it if he came prematurely, the pervert that he is. The second the timer buzzes, Atsumu dries himself off at a record-breaking speed and slips into the bathrobe. It’s a little tight around the shoulders, but that’s alright. 

When he exits, he finds a pair of matching white slippers have been placed beside the door. Atsumu steps into these, too, and pads over to another door, across from Sakusa’s bedroom, which now stands cracked open.

“Come in,” Sakusa’s voice calls. Atsumu pokes his head inside. Though he should’ve been expecting this, he gapes in starstruck surprise. He recognizes the room as the one where Sakusa records his streams immediately: the triple monitors and tall-backed gaming chair--gray-black with neon green accents--give that away well enough. There are shelves full of figurines, DVDs, other merch; and dozens of posters, some of them signed, paper the walls. Lots of anime, and a few idol groups, too. Atsumu can hear the clack of keys as Sakusa, only the top of his head visible above the chair, focuses on the central monitor, the glow of it and the neon purple backlights along the far wall all that illuminate the room. 

Atsumu waits, impatience gnawing at him, and resists the impulse to interrupt. He wouldn’t want to take Sakusa away from his work, after all. 

Finally, Sakusa’s typing slows to a stop, and he swivels the chair around and actually _steeples his fingers_ like a villain from a cartoon. “Miya-chan,” he says, in a flat tone utterly devoid of affection. Atsumu’s lips part involuntarily, the sound of Sakusa speaking his name for the first time almost too much to bear. Sakusa crooks two fingers in a come-hither motion. “Come here.” 

Atsumu goes, metaphorical tail a-wagging. Here, Sakusa’s scent is oppressively dense, nauseatingly hot. “Hey,” he says, swallowing. “So, talk, right?” 

Sakusa nods slowly. His eyes flicker around the room, narrowing as if realizing he’d forgotten to prepare another place to sit. Atsumu’s fine with it; folding his arms, he waits for Sakusa to stop him as he sits on the edge of Sakusa’s desk. No sharp looks or warnings come. “I wanted to make a few things clear first. I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

“Understandable,” Atsumu says, gung-ho.

“No, I’ve been totally dishonest.” Sakusa avoids meeting Atsumu’s gaze, and rubs his forehead with long, slender fingers Atsumu has seen wrapped around controllers and cups of bubble tea countless times, and which he dares say would look marvelous wrapped around Atsumu’s cock. “When I messaged you, I...knew who you were.”

“Oh,” says Atsumu, confused. 

“Kenma and I have been friends for a while,” Sakusa randomly decides to explain. He sighs. “We played volleyball together in middle school.” 

Atsumu blinks. He’s dumbstruck. Nowhere, not in any of the shady forums he’s read, has it been suggested that Sakusa is also a former volleyball player. “Wha--holy shi--seriously?” 

“Yes. That was before my, um, various conditions worsened.” He’s still not looking at Atsumu. Atsumu’s still stuck on the volleyball thing. 

“What position?”

“Wing spiker. I wasn’t very good. I always got awful wrist pain because of it.”

“Wait,” Atsumu says, brain beginning to digest the next chunk of Sakusa-related insight. “Kodzuken said you don’t like leaving your apartment.”

Sakusa nods. He rests his chin on his fist, biting his lip attractively before letting it go. “Yes. That’s why I started streaming. I attend classes online. It’s the best way to manage my, ah, my anxieties, I think. I don’t invite others over often. Only when I really need it. Like.” His eyes flick up to Atsumu’s, tantalizingly dark, and Atsumu suppresses a shudder. “When I’m in heat. Or whatever.”

“Ah,” Atsumu says, voice pitched up a normal amount. 

“Nevermind that.” Sakusa’s eyes dart away, and he goes on: “Anyway, this past July, Kenma came over so we could work on this collab project we were preparing. While we were on break, he pulled up a stream of a high school volleyball tournament that was airing at the time--”

Atsumu’s eyes widen. His palms are starting to sweat they way they do before a game--worse. “The Interhigh?” 

Sakusa nods. “It’s not as if we’re so far removed from that age, but it’s nostalgic, yeah? Kenma was following his alma mater, Nekoma.” _What the fuck_. Atsumu’s heart _is_ going to beat out of his chest. “They played this other team that was really good, easily one of the favorites to win it all.”

_No fucking way_. 

“They had an, um, really impressive setter.”

No longer a cool cartoon villain, Sakusa shifts in his seat. His mouth’s all twisted up, like it hurts to speak the words. Atsumu’s hurting. His heart and his dick are on fire. “Me, right?” Atsumu forces out, like it could be anyone else.

“I thought his name sounded familiar,” Sakusa says, the third-person pronoun making a mockery of them both. “I had a new follower, a new regular in my mentions whose username sounded a lot like it--”

“You’re joking,” Atsumu says, unable to help himself. Really, he’s holding on by a thread. 

“--and they followed a bunch of volleyball accounts, too. It wasn’t difficult to put two and two together. Unless they were just a fan of his, and pretending. There are crazies out there who’d do that, even if you’re a total nobody.” Sakusa peers up at him through thick lashes and goes on, like he isn’t coming closer to killing Atsumu off with each word: “But I kind of hoped?”

Silence. Save for the low hum of Sakusa’s computer, now on sleep mode. The room has fallen darker still, the neon lights rendering it sensual and dreamlike. “You hoped,” Atsumu says, once he remembers how to breathe. 

“Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not--I wasn’t his _fan_ , or anything. But--” Sakusa huffs, as if sharing a private joke with himself. “Kenma doesn’t know. _He’d_ get the wrong idea.”

“Ah, sure,” Atsumu says, nodding like he understands. Sakusa seems satisfied with Atsumu’s agreement, and continues. 

“I didn’t know for sure,” says Sakusa, “until I got the order.”

_The order_. _What?_ Right about now, Atsumu thinks Sakusa could get his knot to fill out if he so much as _looked_ at Atsumu the wrong way. Just a hint of condescension, a little swipe of his tongue over those plump lips, and Atsumu would cream his pants. He’s having a hard time keeping up. “I don’t--”

“The bath water.” Sakusa sounds as agonized as he looks as he brings a hand to his forehead, slumping back in his chair. “That was a dare, something for publicity--I didn’t think anyone would buy it.”

“ _Oh_.” 

“But of course they did. Because people are crazy. And you are, too, right? Miya Atsumu?” Sakusa’s lips twitch as he meets Atsumu’s gaze again, finally, and Atsumu presses his palm into his crotch before he knows what he’s doing. He whines pathetically. The smell’s making him dizzy. Everything is--he can’t _believe_ it, he’s sure any moment he’ll wake up and this will be a dream--

“You knew?” Atsumu whispers. 

“I filled all the orders myself, so. I saw your name.” 

“ _Fuck_.” Atsumu thought he knew humiliation. That was nothing. He’s crushed, the shame of being caught with his hand in the cookie jar--with his _fingers_ in someone’s _used bath water_ , then in his _mouth_ \--sinking into his marrow and pulling him down to the dirt, where he’ll happily be buried alive. He swears he’s about to cum harder than he ever has in his short, sad life. “I didn’t--that wasn’t me--”

Sakusa raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t buy it?”

“I _did_ , it was--just like you, it was a dare. The guys--some of my teammates, fucking bastards--”

“You should thank them.” Sakusa’s standing. _Oh, fuck no_. “They brought me to you. I wouldn’t have messaged otherwise. I saw that, and I thought, you really _are_ obsessed.” His lips twitch into something that edges on a smile before they flatten out, all mirth draining from his features. He steps closer, right into Atsumu’s space, cornering him against the desk. He’s taller than Atsumu. Slimmer, but just as imposing. Atsumu’s body ripples with the proximity, the swarm of pheromones drenching them both, and something like a moan trips out of his mouth. Sakusa won’t even have to touch him. “Even if it was a dare, you are, aren’t you?”

Atsumu nods eagerly. He’s so overwhelmed his eyes are starting to prick with tears.

“It’s hot that you are, Miya-chan. You’re--” Sakusa bites his lip again, worrying it between his teeth. “--you’re very attractive.”

Atsumu laughs, a breathless, involuntary sound. Sakusa’s said far worse things via direct messages, but _now_ he looks embarrassed. 

“I’m glad you want me,” Sakusa adds, quieter. Atsumu’s eyelids flutter, and he hums a wordless response. “What did you do with it?”

“Huh?”

“The bath water,” Sakusa murmurs. He inches closer, closer, and braces his hands on the desk next to Atsumu’s. Atsumu can feel Sakusa’s breath. He can’t think. “Did you open it?”

Atsumu nods as if in hypnosis. The moment he makes the confession, he wishes he could take it back. But Sakusa’s eyes only widen, his breath deepening. 

“Did you smell me?”

Atsumu nods again, hating himself as the words spill out: “Yeah, I loved it, I--”

“And?”

“It turned me on so much,” Atsumu whispers. “I wanted you so badly, wanted to taste you.”

“Did you?”

Atsumu squeezes his eyes shut and nods again. His eye fly open again as a cold palm slides over his knuckles, adding pressure to his clothed erection. Sakusa. _Sakusa_ ’s touching him, skin-on-skin. Sakusa’s brows furrow as he peers at Atsumu, scanning for his every reaction. 

“Gross,” Sakusa says. “You’re dirty.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu agrees, limp. 

“Did it feel good?” _Yeah_. “Mmm. Wish I could’ve seen.” _Yeah?_ “I bet you’re pretty when you cum.” _Wanna find out?_ “Yes,” Sakusa utters, voice thick. “Now be a good boy and show me.”

Sakusa, Atsumu later finds out, tastes better than he ever could’ve imagined. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/winwinism).


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